


The Last Temptation of Chris

by dysphorie



Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Chris Fehn and the banana incident, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Gratuitous mention of string cheese, Grey sweats are a dangerous thing, Jealousy, M/M, Now with even more feelings!, Pining, Visible confusion, Well kinda fluff, Yearning, they're horny idiots, with a capital F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22941763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/pseuds/dysphorie
Summary: "If there's one hill that Chris Fehn will die on, it's this one:It was all Jim Fucking Root's fault.Him and those goddamn grey sweats."Or, Chris Fehn and the Great Grey Sweatpants Massacre.
Relationships: Chris Fehn/Jim Root
Comments: 48
Kudos: 57





	1. Forbidden Fruit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zort/gifts).



> Chris has a problem. A _big_ problem, and he's completely at a loss as to how to deal with it. He'd ask his bandmate for help, if it wasn't _them_ unwittingly causing the problem.
> 
> This is set around the release of ".5: The Gray Chapter", aka The Rise of The Beard, if that helps picture our beloved horny simpletons.
> 
> There's no update schedule. It happens when it happens!

****If there's one hill that Chris Fehn will die on, it's this one:

 _It was all Jim Fucking Root's fault._

Him and those goddamn grey sweats.

\---

Boys are disgusting. That’s a given. Chris has spent so many years living with disgusting boys that he doesn’t even register things even more, like the dirty clothes lying about, the smells, the used tissues crammed into every nook and cranny. He thinks of them as boys because that’s what they are; overgrown children who didn’t want to aim for the traditional nine-to-five, mowed lawn and white picket fence and so never matured past the teenage rockstars they wanted to be and eventually, kind of, became. But mostly, he doesn’t notice because he’s _one_ of the disgusting boys, so it all just kinda goes over his head.

Jim’s the only one who’s not really like that. Maybe it’s the OCD or anxiety or whatever but Chris has always noticed that Jim tends to be a bit cleaner, a bit more orderly, a bit more, well, hygienic than the others.

All that changes roughly three weeks into the tour.

It happens on what started out as a perfectly normal day. Chris is just minding his business, sitting at the back of the bus in the middle of the night playing the Xbox, when it happens. He never sleeps well on the bus, not one of the lucky ones that’s soothed by the rumble of the engine and vibrations of the road, so rather than lie in his bunk in the dark staring at the roof, he stares at the flickering screen of the shitty little TV. 

Whatever interest he has in the game is lost when he spies Jim out of the corner of his eye. Stumbling slightly with the motion of the bus as he makes his way down the aisle, clearly drowsy and not quite all there yet. He’s mostly in darkness, only finally illuminated by the glow of the TV when he walks into the space proper, which coincides nicely with Chris nearly swallowing his fucking tongue.

Jim’s in sweats. This is not unusual. A grown-ass man wearing sweatpants to bed isn’t exactly headline news. But...usually Jim’s are black. Usually. Are they? Either way, this pair isn’t and it’s instantly a problem for Chris. Because they’re fucking grey, and things that are barely noticeable behind black fabric are all of a sudden _very very fucking obvious_ and Chris can’t tear his eyes away. 

They’re clearly Jim’s “lucky” tour sweats that he’s had for years, Chris recognises the faded logo on the hip. Which, of course, is conveniently located right next to Jim’s crotch. Or maybe he means inconveniently, because he can’t stop his eyes constantly drifting towards the unmistakable, rather large bulge just to the right of the logo. His brain short circuits. The logo. The logo on Jim's sweats. Jim's sweats that Jim's wearing with nothing underneath.

Chris is _sure_ they were black before. Maybe Jim washed them a lot between tours. Maybe Chris had a stroke and didn’t realise. The how’s and why’s don’t matter; all that matters is Chris is suddenly painfully hard in his own pants, and that's never happened before, not under these circumstances. It's not that Chris thinks of himself as strictly straight or anything; he's always assumed he'd be up for anything if it were the right person. He just didn't expect it to actually happen, and definitely not with someone he's known most of his adult life. Someone he's _never_ seen in this light before.

Speaking of light, Chris finally tears his attention away from the blue-green, television screen-washed fabric to look at Jim's face. Jim’s not looking back.

“Uh hey there Jim. You ok?” Chris asks, but it doesn’t seem like Jim heard him. He’s squinting into the darkness because of course he didn’t put his glasses on, which just makes him look even softer and sleepier as he fumbles with cushions and papers that litter the bus surfaces. Chris tries again, a bit louder this time. “ _Jim,_ you ok? Looking for something?”

That makes him look over at Chris at last. _Oh no, he’s so soft and pretty._ “I’m looking for, uh....” he trails off, blinking a few times as he tries to focus. Chris gulps. “My phone, looking for my phone. I think.”

For a split second, Chris has no idea what a phone is. He recovers quickly, giving his head a small shake.

"I haven't seen it, man," he says. "Do you remember where you had it last? I'd check Sid's bunk if I were you. You know what he's like." _Yeah, that's it, Fehn. Distract him. Get him to go wake up Sid. That'll cause a ruckus and you can sneak off to the bathroom til Jim's back in bed. Then you can go to sleep, yeah just go to sleep, absolutely nothing else -_

“Is that it behind you?” Jim’s pointing, looking over Chris’s shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts. Chris twists to look at the counter, doesn’t see what anything resembling a phone, and turns back to tell Jim as much. 

Jim, who has suddenly moved to stand _right in front of Chris and lean over him to check the counter himself,_ leaving Chris eye-to-eye with his _clearly_ unrestrained dick. Clamping his teeth together, Chris makes a noise that could best be described as a death rattle because jesus fuck Jim’s whole entire crotch is _right fucking there_ in front of his nose, close enough that the nose of his mask would be touching it, visible against the worn-soft fabric. Chris could probably count the stitches fraying at the seams if he hadn’t all of a sudden forgotten math. Jim smells of deodorant and detergent, a hint of sweat at the edges that makes Chris salivate for some reason.

Then it’s gone. Jim’s pushing himself upright, mumbling under his breath and scratching his shaggy head, still phoneless, blissfully unaware of the hell he’d just put his poor bandmate through. Chris watches him wander back, eyes fixed on Jim's broad back as he sways. As soon as Jim’s back in his bunk, Chris scurries to his own and ruts against a pillow hastily shoved between his thighs until he falls into a fitful sleep. 

And so begins the weirdest, most ridiculous week of Chris’s miserable life thus far.

\---

From that night on, Chris is in hell. Jim seems to spend all his free time in his sweats, unless they have to get off the bus. Then he changes unto jeans that quite frankly are too tight to be legal. He's never paid attention before, but Chris is finding himself starting to appreciate Jim's varied taste in clothes, what they do for his body; the deep dips of his clavicles and shoulders emphasised by the cut-off sleeves and collars of several t-shirts, the way his legs look endlessly long and shapely in skinny pants, and, god help him, he’s caught himself looking at Jim’s ass in said pants on more than one occasion. He’ll never be able to call him The Peach again now.

The grey sweats are his favourites though. Chris can't stop thinking about them, and what's inside them. He's fixated and distracted and _god,_ he's confused. Also he isn't sure at what point his once-functioning brain was replaced with a small lump of flavourless chewing gum. Perhaps around the same time his bandmate suddenly made his mouth water like the first three chews of a stick of Juicy Fruit.

It’s not his fault, ok? Chris didn’t fucking ask to be launched into the fucking mesosphere, he was just having a good time living his life and Jim had to come along with those _fucking sweatpants_ , and Chris doesn’t know how to keep a coherent thought in his brain every time he sees them. Or rather, sees Jim _in_ them. It’s not like he’s never seen the guy naked, for fucks’ sake. They spend most of the year on tour buses living up each others asses, nudity and wangs in your face is gonna happen whether you like it or not. He’s just never seen it so... _advertised._ Like there’s something about seeing the shape of everything behind the fabric curtain that makes him wanna peel Jim open like a string cheese.

But...the longer it goes on, the more Chris realises that what he thought was just about being, for want of a better word, fascinated by his friends dick, is actually something a lot deeper. It’s deeper and it’s an actual _feeling_ , and it confuses him and scares him. He wants to see it, and he wants to _touch_ it, and the longer he thinks about it and the more times he jerks off like a maniac _begging_ himself to think about anyone, anything other than Jim, the more he realises he wants to do other things to it. And to Jim. And that’s the scariest bit. He doesn't come, though. Never lets himself orgasm thinking about his bandmate. That'd be weird, so as long as Chris doesn't do that, it's fine.

_It's fine, I'm fine._

He was _not_ , in fact, fine

\---

Have you ever heard something you wish you hadn’t? How about hearing something you wish you hadn’t, and then sitting down to hear more? Jim and Corey are talking when Chris oozes out of bed, more than a little hungover. He’d kept drinking the night before long after everyone else had gone to bed, and for the first time in days Chris is too preoccupied with something else to be weird and awkward around Jim, so he just kicks him in the grey sweatpant-clad calf until he moves his mile-long appendages to let Chris pass between them, in desperate search of something to put in his stomach that isn’t more alcohol and meat of questionable origin. Standing swaying, unable to tell whether or not it’s the motion of the bus or if his brain is still afloat on a sea of scotch, Chris tunes into the conversation behind him.

“... You know what it’s like trying to keep on top of laundry on tour man, and sometimes you don’t wanna just rinse that shit in the sink, y’know?” 

Oh, laundry. How fascinating. Eventually he settles on a banana, figuring that he deserves the irony of eating the most phallic of fruits during his current struggles. The conversation drones on as Chris tries to navigate staying upright while peeling the fruit.

Corey’s voice joins Jim’s. “Yeah but like, I just don’t give a fuck dude, I just wear ‘em anyway. As long as they’re not walking off the bus by themselves, they’re good for another day or two.”

They both burst out laughing at that. It makes Chris’s head scream, and he’s seconds from killing them both and going back to bed when Jim speaks up again.

“That’s because you’re fuckin’ gross, Cor. So yeah, gotta make sure I’ve at least got enough left for the shows, y’know? Cos that fuckin' gear chafes like a motherfucker if you don’t have anything underneath.” _Nothing...under...neath..._ what? Chris blinks a few times as he tries to take a bite of banana. His aim's a bit off. “The number of times I’ve come off stage and got changed and, y'know, my dick looks and feels like I got a sandpaper handjob.”

Chris’s brain pounds with the effort of calculating what the fuck Jim means, but eventually it falls into place like so many Tetris blocks. Slowly he sinks into a seat behind Jim, staring at the back of his head. Corey seems to be contemplating Jim’s point and they appear to continue their discussion, but Chris can’t hear what he’s saying for the growing roaring filling his ears like the goddamned _Ironside_ sirens. In a flash his brain conjures up the entire history of the band’s stage gear, from boiler suits to shirts and pants, wondering how close he came to seeing Jim suffer a Superbowl-esque wardrobe malfunction. Later he’ll blame the hangover but he nearly throws up as his stomach churns with something between slutty need and abject horror as he pictures what sort of state Jim's dick was in.

Does he mean it was red and irritated? Did he mean scraped and raw? Blistered? Would he have had to put ointment on it? Or did he just grin and bear the pain? _Maybe he enjoyed it,_ Chris's gremlin brain hisses. A tear leaks from his eye and his cock twitches in his pants.

The banana sits in his mouth, uneaten, and Chris doesn’t even realise he’s not eating it. Instead he stares at the waves of Jim’s hair as his tongue lazily licks the fruit like a popsicle and contemplates what could’ve been. _What if his boiler suit had ripped up the ass? What if his pants split? What if his pants fell down? What if -_

Jim suddenly rounds on Chris. “How ‘bout you man? You ever get dickchafe?”

Chris bites through his banana so hard his teeth clack together. It fucking hurts, but he doesn’t notice. And he can’t answer with his mouth full of fruit mush, so he just...stares. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t make a sound, just fucking _stares_. He's gonna kill him. Throw Jim off the fucking bus with his dick and his godforsaken grey sweats then bounce himself out the door as well for good measure. Thankfully Jim seems so incensed by the very concept of chafing that he turns back to Corey, spitting out more irritation on the subject of irritation, giving Chris time to swallow and learn how to breathe again.

Appetite gone, Chris throws the rest of the fruit in the trash, mumbling something about _“Scotch shits,”_ as he stumbles between Jim and Corey again, bent awkwardly to conceal his growing erection, and locks himself in the toilet to think about his life choices.

A few hours later they’re onstage, and while most Slipknot gigs are a ball-hair away from falling apart at the seams, Chris feels more precarious than ever because he can’t stop staring at Jim. They’d sat opposite each other in the dressing room, smearing black greasepaint around their eyes as they shot the shit, Chris doing his level best to make chit-chat with him despite how... _weird_ he felt around him. It’s not a nice feeling; Chris has known Jim way too long for things to change between them now. They’re brothers, part of The Nine, and that’s more important now than it’s ever been, what with - what with… he gave his head a sharp shake. That’s no better a path to go down than the one he’s currently stumbling along. 

So he’d smiled and laughed at what he hoped were the right times, tried to ignore just how extra green Jim’s eyes looked against the black, and screamed between his teeth into his zipped-shut mouth when Jim stood up to zip his boiler suit closed because Chris wasn’t convinced he had a single stitch of clothing on underneath. Alex squeezed his shoulder and asked if he was alright, making Chris jump. All he could do at the time was nod because if he’d dared actually try to speak, he might have cried.

Now he’s frantically trying to concentrate on drumming the right drums and singing the right songs at the right time, all while watching Jim fucking gyrate in front of him like the human metronome he is. The seam of his boiler suit is riding _high_ , practically disappearing up his asscrack every time he spreads his legs or bends forward, and Chris is like, 99% sure it wasn’t like that before. Or maybe it was and he just wasn’t paying attention. Oh, to go back to those simple days. Towards the end of the show Jim’s mid-riff when he’s coming back from Mick’s side of the stage just as Chris is coming down to join Corey. The grin he gives Chris as he passes, face half hidden by his mask and turned from the crowd where no one else can see it, as if it’s _just_ for Chris, is so full of unbridled joy that Chris feels weak at the knees.

_Cut, cut, cut me up and fuck, fuck, fuck me up_ indeed.

\---

The rest of the gig goes off relatively painlessly, and mercifully, it’s a hotel night. They’re always preferable to nights on the buses, but this time in particular, because Chris _really_ needs some time to himself. It’s one of the very few instances of them each having their own room, and Chris could weep with relief. No Sid keeping him up all night with his shitty music and talking gibberish, no Mick and his snoring to disturb him. He’s all alone. Alone in his room, alone with his thoughts, alone to try and work things the fuck out.

But that also means...Jim’s alone too. 

In the room right behind Chris. Their doors are at right angles to each other at the end of the hall. If Chris sat at the head of his bed, he could probably hear right through the wall...

He throws himself against the headboard so hard he probably bruises a rib, _just_ resisting the urge to literally press his ear against the wall. From where he is now he can actually hear what’s going on quite clearly (which speaks volumes about the quality of the hotel they’re in, but Chris isn’t going to complain. Not right now, anyway). He can hear shuffling and the occasional grunted cough, simple domestic sounds of someone getting ready for bed. It’s so...normal. No loud partying voices, no raucous laughter. Chris sighs, relieved that Jim does actually seem to be alone. The tension he didn’t realise he was holding starts to leave his shoulders. He’d never admit it, but the idea of Jim having a - a _guest_ made Chris feel slightly ill when it popped into his mind. And now he feels slightly ill for again having thoughts like that about Jim for what feels like the millionth time that week. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting. That’s his _friend._ No, that’s his _brother._

 _Ugh._ He shakes his head, trying to tell himself that it doesn’t matter. Jim doesn’t know, doesn’t need to know. Chris will be over this in another week, and all will be fine. He just needs a proper night’s sleep by himself. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Now, Chris can relax. Lie down, chill, and try to sleep away the tension and confusion of the past week.

Then there's the shower starting. Oh shit. Suddenly all the fight goes out of Chris’s body, and he lies tiredly back across the pillows, bites his lip and palms his rapidly-hardening dick, pushing it down and trying desperately to resist the urge to wrap his hand around it. Because he wants to. He _really_ wants to. It’s too much. He can hear Jim singing quietly and it makes Chris picture the scene: long limbs, slick and wet, Jim all soaped and sleek. Those broad hands stroking down the trail of hair below his belly button. Chris chokes a little when he imagines a hand continuing down, down. Jim's got the room to himself, a perfect opportunity to get himself off, so maybe Jim would cup his own dick, work it with a bubbly hand so Chris could hear his sweet little cries through the wall. Does Jim sound like that, he wonders. What makes him make the most noise? Where does he like to be touched? To be kissed? To be _licked?_

Unbidden, a vision of Chris on his knees in front of Jim in the shower flashes into his brain, mouth open, water running down his face and into his open mouth as Jim fucks his face hard and fast, hands tight in his hair as he holds Chris still and uses him. Tears stream down his face when Jim's dick hits his throat, making him gag and retch. Chris loves it -

Wait where the fuck did _that_ come from? That’s the most... _graphic,_ clear desire Chris has had all week. Every other time he's let himself fantasise, it's all been nebulous and nonspecific. A want to do something but no concrete visions of exactly what.

Jesus _fuck. Shit._ Chris glances down, not surprised to see that he's shoved his hand down his shorts without even noticing. His dick is leaking around his fist, making his lazy movements effortless. Christ, it feels good, and it occurs to him that this is the first time he’s properly jacked off in the past week. That’s practically unheard of. Up until now he'd either rutted clumsily against his wrist in bed or given himself a few halfhearted tugs before stopping out of guilt. A pang of that same guilt curls in his belly, lit by the idea of yanking it to his unwitting bandmate, but this time he can’t stop himself. It feels too good and Jim’s too beautiful and Chris is too weak to resist. The pattering of the water continues in the background, and Chris bites down on the knuckles of his other hand to muffle himself. Thumbing though a pearl of precome, he imagines what he’s missing on the other side of that wall. 

_Jim, with one broad hand wrapped around his dick, the long fingers of the other hand soaped up and reaching behind him to finger himself. Hair wet and plastered to his forehead, water getting in his half-closed eyes but paying it no attention because he's too caught up in the sensations that flood his body. Keeping it slow and languid, really savouring the time he has. Knees wobbling. Thighs trembling. Every inch of him soaking wet and burning up under the stream of water, the sounds of the shower swallowing his gasps and whines even though he doesn't need to worry about anyone hearing him._

Except Chris.

Another thought hits him: he could go over there and see what he’s missing. There’s nothing stopping him. Jim’s most likely alone, Chris knows Jim’s been with guys in the past, and lord knows he’s had more than one guy’s lips around his dick. Maybe Chris is in with a chance. Maybe Jim feels the same.

Maybe Chris just can’t fucking take it anymore and needs to know either way because he’s seconds from exploding and he’s not going to waste an orgasm on the lining of his shorts if he doesn’t have to.

Before he can talk himself out of it and half blind with lust he hauls himself off the bed and out the room, turning to the right and nearly slamming straight into Jim’s door in his rush. Not even stopping to take a breath he raps the door sharply three times, slightly amazed he didn’t just break his fucking knuckles. It feels like it takes Jim an eternity to answer, and when he eventually does he looks concerned, somehow managing to look like he’s cowering despite his height. 

Somehow in his rush to get over here and make a fool of himself, it didn’t occur to Chris that he was, y’know, _interrupting Jim while he was taking a shower._ Which means he really is lucky that his bandmate doesn’t have an exhibitionist streak and so wont answer the door butt naked like Sid or Corey or Chris himself would do. What he _does_ do, though, is stop to throw his fucking sweats back on. Chris didn’t think it could get worse. He was wrong. Thanks to Jim being soaking wet, his sweats and the ancient TRIUMPH tank are sticking to him like a second skin, and Chris is pretty sure his soul has left his body. Jim’s lean, but he’s got curves in all the right places that Chris wasn’t expecting but now his hands are itching to get a hold of them. There’s a sliver of silky skin bare at his hip. Chris wants to dig his fingers into it.

He can’t speak. Can’t trust himself to form words. Instead he just puts his shaking hands on Jim’s chest and gently pushes him back into the room.

“What -” Jim starts, but he’s cut off by Chris furiously shaking his head, holding a hand up to silence him. If he lets Jim speak, he’ll bail. If he speaks, he’ll either bail or tell him everything. He doesn’t want either to happen. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, and they’re both named Jim Root. Walking further into the room he runs his hands through his hair, doesn’t notice the worried expression on Jim’s face. Just desperately tries to think of what the fuck he’s going to do next now that he’s here.

“Chris…” Jim’s voice is soft, concerned. “Are you ok, man?” His hand is warm on Chris’s back and that’s it. It’s too much. He flinches, knocks Jim away.

“Jim, I’m really sorry,” he starts. _Oh no._ He doesn’t want to say it but it’s all about to spill out like so much word vomit. He can’t stop it. “But it’s been like, a week, and I am dying because you’ve fucking _killed_ me every fucking day because of those _fucking sweats_ you keep wearing. It’s like your dick is spinning a sign advertising itself that says _“ALL YOU CAN EAT”_ and I’m the only one who can see it and it’s still fucking killing me so I can _please_ just suck your dick already? Please man, I’m dying, can I just - suck. Your. Dick. Already?!”

Oh shit. That was loud. Chris hears his voice echo in his ears when he finishes his outburst. His eyes were already fixed on Jim, who looks like he’s been slapped. Chris’s fingers hurt where they’re clutching his scalp, pulling his own hair. He lets his hands fall to his sides. Jim looks down at his sweats, as if noticing them for the first time.

"I didn't notice it was that visible," he mumbles.

"You - what?" Chris barks out a laugh, incredulous. "How could you not fucking notice, dude? It's like someone draped a sheet on the Washington Monument!”

There's no answer to that except a scarlet flush creeping up Jim's pale neck. Jim just blinks, takes a few steps backwards until his knees hit the bed and he drops down, gripping the edge of the blankets with white knuckles. Chris looks around the room, staring at the drapes, the mirror, the fucking coffee machine. _Anywhere_ but at Jim sitting there chewing his lip in agonising silence, because watching the confusion crossing Jim’s face is making him look altogether too adorable and Chris thinks if he looks too closely he’ll drop dead.

"Why?" Jim finally says.

Now it’s Chris’s turn to just blink. "Wh-? What?" he stutters, utterly perplexed. "What do you mean _'why'_?" Who the fuck asks _why_ someone wants to suck their dick? That is just not a thing that happens. "' _Can I suck your dick?'_ isn't a question you can answer with another question! Especially not fucking ' _w_ _hy?'_!"

The blush colours Jim’s cheeks a rosy apple red. Chris wants to bite them. “I dunno,” he starts, voice small and unsure. “Just...guess I don’t know why you’d, y'know, want to suck _my_ dick and not like, someone else's. Someone hot?”

Chris doesn’t think, doesn’t question what he’s doing or what the repercussions might be. He just takes a few long steps to close the gap between them and grabs Jim’s face, resisting the urge to slam their mouths together at the last second and instead just barely pressing against him. He can feel Jim trembling when he licks at the seam of his lips, and where Chris is getting this bravery from he doesn’t know but he’s going to go along with it until he can’t anymore. His whole body tingles, adrenaline and need setting every nerve alight.

Now Jim’s tongue is touching his, and he tastes and feels amazing; soft and sweet and unsure, practiced but nervous. Maybe it's because it's Chris, maybe he hasn't kissed anyone in a while? Chris knows the vague details of Jim's romantic life, but he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he was actually _with_ someone. Doesn’t really _want_ to know if he’s honest, because this is a really fucking big deal and it all feels so easy that he wants it to be special, doesn’t want to feel like a notch on his bedpost. Chris isn't stupid; he doesn't expect anything to go beyond tonight, and that's assuming anything more happens tonight. He just wants this experience to matter, because it is unequivocally a _big fucking deal,_ because he's kissing Jim Fucking Root, who isn't just a close friend but a _man_ and Chris has never kissed another man and that, friends, is a _big fucking deal._ He’s not sure what he expected kissing another guy to be like; probably rough, dry lips and scratchy stubble. Careless. Unrefined. 

Jim is none of those things. His lips are smooth and plush, his beard soft where it tickles against Chris’s face, his tongue delicate and hesitant when it tastes Chris’s mouth. There's no battle for supremacy, no harshness. Just Jim's quiet little breaths on his cheek and sighs in his mouth. 

When Chris pulls back, breathless and more than a little uncertain, Jim looks dazed and delicious, and Chris wants to dive right back in, but he needs to know: is Jim ok with this? Chris has initiated every step they’ve taken so far. Does Jim want him to keep going? His question is answered when a streak of passion flares in those green eyes, and Chris only has the briefest chance to catch his breath before Jim is grabbing his face and pulling them back together. They easily fall deeper into the kiss together, mouths slotting together seamlessly, naturally, in a way that's making Chris's heart throb more than his dick.

It kills Chris to pull back, but he likes the way Jim chases his lips. "So...can I?"

There's silence for a moment before Jim opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

It’s ok, Chris can do a bit more of the work here. "Let me rephrase: do you _want_ me to suck your dick, Jim?"

Jim's eyes are like fucking saucers, Chris isn't sure how they haven't fallen out of his head. “I - I don’t know, I mean -” Jim pauses, licks his lips. “I do, but -”

A few more beats pass in silence. Chris raises an eyebrow and repeats, “But…?” with a little smile.

Jim fixes him with a steely look. He’s not joking around.

“ _But_ , I need to know something. I need to know this - this fucking _breakdown_ you’re having and what you want to do isn’t, y’know, _literally_ just about wanting to suck my dick because you’re fucking...I don’t know, obsessed or something.” He breaks their eye contact and looks down at his hands where he's let them fall into his lap. “It’s just, I’ve had people in the past just, y’know, want to see what someone my size’s dick is like and it’s not like, something I need to happen again. Not - not with you -”

Chris interrupts him with a quick kiss. His hands are gentle when he puts them on Jim’s chest, pushing just a little.

“Jim, just relax. I...I don’t know how to explain what this means,” and that’s the god’s honest truth. He has no idea how to explain what this past week has done to him, what it’s made him think about and realise about himself. And he might never have the words to explain, so he needs to think of something else. A different way to show Jim that this is about far, _far_ more. “Let me _show_ you...”

Jim doesn’t say anything doesn’t lie down, but he does slowly, hesitantly lean back a bit onto his hands, giving Chris room to drop to his knees and sit back on his heels, lean forward and grip the waistband of his pants, lifting his hips as he eases them down a little. When Jim’s dick springs out it’s reassuringly hard, making Chris breathe out a sigh of relief. Jim’s into this, that’s ok. The whole thing would’ve been so much weirder if the first dick Chris ever sucked was soft. He doesn’t even know what he’d do if someone sucked his _own_ dick while it was soft, much less what to do to someone else’s. It sits thick towards one hip, tip already messy with precome, and Chris can’t stop fucking staring as he works the sweats down and off so he can slide between Jim’s long legs better. He thought he’d be a lot more scared but instead he just can’t wait to wrap his lips around it, it’s fucking _pretty._ Flushed red and inviting and totally worth the suffering so far.

Chancing a glance up, Chris’s heart falls a little when he sees Jim’s face. He’s not looking down but facing the wall, brows furrowed and mouth tight. It’s like a rock’s dropped into the pit of Chris’s stomach. He reaches up a hand, slowly, gently, gripping Jim’s chin and turning his head back around, careful not to pull on his beard.

“Hey, hey, what’s up?” he asks, keeping his voice soft. “Don’t you want this? I’ll stop if that’s what you want?” and he will. In a heartbeat. 

Jim lets out a harsh huff of breath through his nose. “No, I want it, I do. I just...still don’t get why you do.”

The look on Jim’s face breaks Chris’s heart. Again he doesn’t know what to say; mostly because he’s not sure himself, and he can’t say that. But he _does_ want to, and he genuinely doesn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t. 

...he wants to. He doesn’t understand why, but he does. He does. More than anything. And not just that, but he wants to kiss Jim again, and not to shut him up this time. And touch him, anywhere, everywhere. It hits him like a ten ton hammer: none of this is about him wanting to suck Jim’s dick. This is about him wanting _Jim._ All of him. Everything that he is. The weight of confusion starts to lift, and Chris can think more clearly than he has in days. 

So he doesn’t answer. Just pushes up on his knees, cups Jim’s face in his hands and presses another soft kiss to his lips. He probably wasn’t supposed to be able to hear the quiet whine that Jim lets out, because it sounds earnest and ever so slightly desperate, and Chris can’t bear it. He needs Jim to know that he wants this. _And_ him.

“Just - just let me take care of you, ok? I can’t guarantee _I’ll_ blow _your_ mind, but I can promise you, _you’re_ already blowing _my_ mind. I _want_ this, Jim.”

Jim doesn’t say anything, and Chris worries that he’s done something wrong, said something wrong. But then a hand is weaving its fingers into his hair, gripping just enough to nudge his face towards Jim’s crotch. Towards his cock.

Chris doesn't need any more encouragement, only hesitates for a second when he takes Jim's dick in his shaking hand and tilts it up towards him. _Just do what you'd want him - I mean, someone to do to you,_ he tells himself, quickly cutting off any thought of Jim doing the same to him. That’s not...that’s just not something he’s going to hope for right now. _One step at a time, Christopher._

It can't be that hard, right? He needs to start slow, knows there's no point in biting off more than he can chew right away. This is supposed to be good for both of them, and that's not gonna happen if Chris tries to deep-throat Jim in one go. They'd end up in the emergency room knowing Chris's luck. So it's tentative open-mouthed kisses and gentle little licks that Chris starts with, just around the base near his fingers. Works his way up, pumping his hand just the tiniest bit when he pulls back to breath in. Jim’s breath comes in short little huffs, barely loud enough for Chris to hear, but he hears them. Like music to his ears. And they only get louder when he sucks carefully up the sides, leaving little red blotches in the skin that make him tingle when he looks. They’re confirmation that he’s not making a _complete_ fool out of himself. Boldened by Jim’s response, he steels himself and wraps his lips around Jim’s tip.

Two things take Chris by surprise: Jim’s size, and his taste. The taste only gives Chris pause for a moment, but he hesitates nonetheless. He’s tasted his own come a few times, quite partial to sucking it out of whichever girl he’s just come inside, but never another guy’s, not even precome like right now. It’s not like anything he’d expected. Less bitter, less salty, much sweeter on his tongue. He doesn’t doubt that’s not the norm though. _That’s just Jim, through and through_ , he thinks, _Come as sweet as he is_. Even the little moans he’s making now, slightly louder as Chris rubs his tongue against that bundle of nerves under the head, are light and dulcet and make Chris dizzy.

The _size_ though. That’s another matter. Really, he should’ve realised this before now. Especially considering that he’s been staring at the fucking thing for what feels like a lifetime. Jim’s a larger than average man, it’s literally just an obvious fact that he’d have a larger than average dick. Chris has never given much thought to the size of his mouth before, but it’s definitely a factor now. Jim isn’t ridiculously girthy but it’s enough that Chris’s lips feel tight, and his jaw’s definitely getting a work out even though he’s trying to relax it as best he can.

He doesn’t stop though, just keeps up the sloppy sucking and lets his drool run free, using his hand to work it along Jim’s length. Jim lets out a long groan when Chris pulls off with a pop and starts wrapping his tongue around his head, long licks with the flat, tiny flicks with the tip, still working the base with one hand. The other sits on Jim’s bare thigh and massages the creamy flesh there, stroking downy hairs with his thumb. He’s not sure if Jim’s enjoying him switching up his technique but he’s also not sure if anything he’s doing it right. It’s probably best at this point to just hope Jim will keep him right. Surely he'd say if Chris was just the absolute worst. Going back to sucking, Chris gets a sudden surge of bravery, and dips his head further down, letting the head of Jim’s cock nudge his throat.

Jim practically convulses, hips jerking his dick further into Chris’s mouth. At first Chris thinks he’s done something wrong until Jim sighs, voice trembling.

“ _Shit,_ you’re good at this, baby.”

Holy _shit._ The way Jim says _baby_ makes Chris’s heart flip, and he moans out loud around the dick in his mouth. Chances are he doesn’t even realise he said it, but the pet name makes Chris feel things he hasn’t in ages and combined with the praise, it makes his head spin. He’s...proud? Of himself? The first time he’s ever sucked a dick and he’s not making a whole entire fool of himself? _Not bad, Fehn._

It’s only natural that that’s when he gets too big for his boots and, metaphorically thankfully, bites off more than he can chew. Chris slips back down, relaxes his tongue, and lets Jim nudge against his uvula again. It’s...ok. A bit scary, but he’s ok. Then Jim’s hips twitch again, and he bumps it again. _Hard._

Chris retches, hauling himself back to gasp for breath, eyes already streaming as he coughs wetly, saliva stringing between their bodies. It’s probably only for a few seconds, but that’s long enough for Chris to worry he’s going to vomit. He doesn’t though. Instead he takes a few deep, shuddering breaths and scrubs his nose with the back of his hand, shakes his head and ignores Jim when he says Chris can stop, and just goes back to suckling sloppily around the head and moving his hand. Never let it be said that Chris Fehn gives up easily. So his first deepthroat attempt didn’t go great. Does anyones? The tip of Jim’s cock is supple between Chris’s tongue and the roof of his mouth, and Jim seems to particularly like it when Chris presses his tongue hard against it, so he does that, slowly bobbing his head back and forth, getting back into a rhythm. Jim's moans are coming faster, and he cries out whenever Chris does something that must feel particularly nice. Something inside Chris swells with pride. 

He’s perhaps a little too eager to make up for his failure though, picking up speed without really meaning to, and suddenly Jim hisses sharply. Chris pulls back, stammering as he realises. 

“Sorry, shit, teeth, sorry -”

But Jim’s shaking his head as he pants. “No, no it’s not that, I like teeth, just…” he trails off, scrubbing a hand across his face. It’s flushed pink, prettier than any man has a right to be. Chris simultaneously wants to kiss him and punch fuck out of him for making him feel...things. 

“Just ...?” he urges.

Jim huffs, starts talking like he’s trying to get everything out in one breath before he loses the nerve, frustrated. 

“I like teeth like I mean I _really_ like teeth but it’s been kind of a long time since anyone...y'know and I - I - just - I don’t - _it was really fuckin’ good and I didn’t wanna come down your throat in case you thought that was fuckin’ weird or it was more than you wanted or something ok Jesus!”_

He says it all with more feeling than anything else he's said all night. A little taken aback, Chris doesn't say anything. Just nods a little to acknowledge that he heard Jim and dips his head back down while he maintains that eye contact with Jim. He knows well enough not to change up what he’s doing now, instead just keeps on scraping his teeth back and forth, sucking and pulling until suddenly, that thick vein swells even bigger against his tongue, and the next thing Jim’s making a noise like he’s been stabbed and his mouth is full and warm. Holy _fuck._ Clamping his eyes tight he tries his hardest to swallow with Jim still pulsing in his mouth, struggling against his gag reflex again as so many unfamiliar sensations hit him at once.

But, breathing deeply through his nose, he manages to keep suckling and nurses Jim through his orgasm, listening to the ragged moans that spill out of him as he pumps into Chris’s mouth over and over. The hand in his hair is tight, pulling at and hurting his scalp, and Chris just wants more. Wants to feel that pleasure crescendo through Jim’s body again because knowing _he_ made him feel _that_ good? Better than any fucking high Chris has ever had. Even the first time he made a girl squirt doesn't compare.

He _really_ doesn’t want to stop, but Jim’s starting to whimper and twitch a little, so Chris gently lets him fall from his mouth. Opening his mouth to ask if that was ok, the words die in his throat as Jim’s other hand seizes his hair and practically drags him up off the floor, crashing their lips together as he falls back onto the bed and takes Chris down with him. From there there’s a flurry of activity; clothes are lost in a haze of kisses and moans until they’re both naked and lying on the bed properly, Chris leaning over Jim. Of course, it’s then that the nerves strike again. Pulling away from the kiss is like coming up for air from the deepest dive, a monumental but necessary effort. It gives Chris a chance to look at Jim, _really_ look at him, and something just goes _blip_ in his brain.

There’s just so _much_ of him; it’s like his torso and limbs are endless, long and shapely and Chris is fucking dying to get his hands on every inch of Jim’s body, but he freezes as he reaches out to him. Panic paralyzes him. It’s so strange, to go from doing something like performing oral sex on one of your oldest friends and just...being fine with it, to being naked with that person and suddenly full of nerves and anxiety. 

And it doesn’t look like Chris is the only one who feels that way; Jim’s lying at an odd angle, half curled into himself, turned towards Chris with an arm across his own body like he’s trying to hide it from Chris but not at the same time. Chris is in no better a state. They’re mostly staring at each other but when Jim’s eyes break away to run up and down Chris’s body he feels a surge of embarrassment that makes him feel even hotter all over than he already did. His hand doesn’t know if it wants to reach out to touch Jim or cover himself up too. It just shakes where it sits suspended in mid-air...


	2. The Blind Leading The Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What has probably been less than a minute has stretched in front of Chris like a full lifetime while he just... stares.  
> _   
>  _Stares at Jim. Jim. His bandmate Jim. His friend Jim. Jim, whose soul he just fucking sucked out via his dick, who actually let him fucking do that. He's only got one working brain cell at the best of times and right now it's about to burst under the strain of trying to think what the fuck he's meant to do next"_
> 
> Or, Chris might have bitten off more than he can chew...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, this took a minute to write. oof baboof
> 
> this was finished in a fit of rage and has only been edited to fit ao3's bizarre formatting rules cos i couldn't bear looking at it anymore. please let me know if i've just fuckin left sentences unfinished or something

What has probably been less than a minute has stretched in front of Chris like a full lifetime while he just... stares. 

Stares at Jim. _Jim._ His _bandmate_ Jim. His _friend_ Jim. Jim, whose soul he just fucking sucked out via his dick, who actually let him fucking _do that_. He's only got one working brain cell at the best of times and right now it's about to burst under the strain of trying to think what the fuck he's meant to do next.

The tension is literal fucking agony. Chris is totally, completely, truly madly deeply at a loss as to what to do next, and he's pretty sure he's not alone in feeling like that. Jim’s big green eyes are looking up at him with an expression that screams _“Please don’t change your mind”_. Which _was_ the furthest thing from Chris’s mind, but he has no idea how to convey that to Jim because his brain has shit the bed and fled the scene. This has gone so much further than he ever thought it would. Not that he thought it was going to go _anywhere_ really, he'd stumbled into Jim's room with exactly zero plan and zero expectations, but this…this is so far past what Chris could've possibly imagined that he wonders if he hit his head at some point and is in some kind of comatose state. Maybe someone left the tv on _Days Of Our Lives_ and it's seeping into his subconscious and giving him fucked up dreams.

In reality they’re both frozen, stuck in the moment in a room full of air thick with a silence Chris is terrified to break in case he says the wrong thing and sends Jim running. He’s acutely aware that his underarms are starting to feel really sweaty and not in a hot, sexy way. Just in a gross nervous flop sweat way. He’s gonna faint. 

Maybe he _should_ bail. Pretend he’s literally shit the bed as an excuse. Or punch Jim and run away. Either way, apparently he’s decided he’s getting himself out of this situation asap by any means necessary.

Until Jim twitches; a barely perceptible movement of his arm towards his chest, like he’s embarrassed and trying to cover himself, as he stammers, “I - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve... _we_ shouldn’t’ve -” his voice is small and thin, not like Jim at all. It doesn’t sound right. Doesn’t _feel_ right.

Time stands still again for Chris. Jim’s speaking, apologising when he’s got nothing to be sorry for, and Chris knows he’s about to make a break for it, jump off the bed to throw his clothes on and then...who knows what’s next. Escape from his own hotel room? Chris doesn’t want that.

It smacks him like a brick between the eyes. Or a falling Sid to the head. Chris doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want Jim to leave, or to feel like what they’ve done is wrong, or regret everything. _He doesn’t want that._ And what he _does_ want… is Jim.

As the split second passes his brain cries out, begs him to interrupt Jim with a kiss, or to start babbling his own apologies and tell Jim that yes of course he’s sorry too he should never have started this he’s a terrible person and and and his hand is moving before he has time to think about it why why _why is his hand moving??_

Jim doesn’t get the chance to move more than a few inches before Chris is gripping his wrist, gently, fingers loose. Jim freezes. His eyes widen, still locked on to Chris’s, wide and wet and slightly fearful.

Chris's heart thumps in his throat.

Carefully, he pulls against the narrow bones of Jim’s wrist, urging him to allow Chris to move it. There’s only a second’s hesitation before he relaxes, but then Chris is able to lift it easily. Lift it to his lips, press them against the fragile skin of Jim’s inner wrist and feel his pulse flutter on the tip of his tongue as he tastes the space between the tendons. Jim whimpers, stiffens a little, and sighs out the tension as Chris trails his lips further up his arm. Delicate little kisses, open-mouthed kisses, barely there pecks; Chris lavishes them all on Jim’s decorated skin as he makes his way from wrist to forearm to bicep and on, across the arch of Jim’s shoulder until he’s licking a line across the slender wing of a collarbone. 

Jim's throat tastes like soap, the bitter floral flavour not deterring him in the slightest. Quite the opposite. He can't resist mouthing at that flesh, sucking and licking _hard_. Jim whines but doesn’t pull away or tell him off, and Chris is again so aware that nothing is going the way he expected it to when he'd first hammered on the hotel room door. There was supposed to be more swearing and less sighing, teeth instead of tenderness. It doesn't matter how hard he tries to push himself to move faster to match that idea; his mouth just keeps up the same lazy pace as it flicks at an earlobe, biting down on the jewellery there to tug it a little. The way Jim's breath catches, it makes Chris's heart flip.

_Fuck it. In for a penny, Christopher._

Pulling back, he whispers, "I'm not sorry."

Jim whimpers quietly. Chris feels more confused. 

He’s confused because it feels really really _natural_ when their lips finally meet again, and it’s nothing like the kisses from before, when Chris was frantic and Jim was bewildered. It’s soft, searching, tentative and curious. This time Chris has the chance to explore Jim’s mouth with his tongue, taste his teeth, nip his lips to see if he likes that kind of thing, because he's been desperate to dig his teeth into that frankly ridiculously attractive bottom lip for way too long now. Jim likes it. _Oh,_ he does. The soft sound he makes shoots straight to Chris’s dick. He echoes the gasp before he can stop himself, hips jerking unconsciously.

They jerk, and the movement grinds his dick _right_ against Jim’s fucking thigh. _Shit,_ Chris thinks, panicking internally, caught between wanting to freak out and wanting to do it again. Jim shifts his leg, rubbing it right back along Chris’s length. Precome practically spits out of it.

They both freeze and look down, as though Chris’s dick is a bomb and if Jim so much as _looks_ at it wrong, it’ll explode.

Which, if Chris is honest, isn’t entirely inaccurate.

“..Can I?” Jim says in a breathless grumble.

Chris’s head shoots up, but Jim isn’t looking at him. He’s still staring down, probably at the smear of precome Chris has left on his leg. He can feel it, sticking him to the faint hairs there. Shame and fear and emotions he doesn’t have the words to name flood Chris’s entire body, making him wish he could curl up and die right in this moment.

It takes him a second to unstick his tongue, but he manages to push, “Can - can you what?” over it, trying to wet his lips.

Jim bites his lip. “Can I touch… _you_?”

 _Oh_ what in the whole entire _fuck_ is with Jim asking stupid redundant questions tonight? Yes, yes he can touch him, for the love of god, _please._ Chris’s dick jumps again when Jim speaks, and again Chris doesn’t trust his voice enough to answer. He just nods his head and tries not to pass out from holding his breath while waiting for Jim’s shaking hand to take hold of him.

There’s no holding back the groan of sheer relief. Jim’s barely done more than take Chris's dick in his hand and Chris is already cross-eyed. Jim strokes him slowly. Chris's eyes close as he tips his head back. Then Jim thumbs the slit and he's pretty sure his soul’s leaving his body. It feels so fucking good and he wants Jim to know but of course, he can’t form the words, so he just takes hold of Jim’s face and pulls him in for another kiss. Mostly because that means Jim can’t look at him properly, can’t see his scarlet cheeks and face getting sweatier and sweatier by the minute.

“Is this ok?” Jim mumbles against Chris’s lips. Chris nods dumbly again. "We don't have to, y’know, do anything else," he says. "I’ll stop if you want.”

 _No no no._ Chris wants to do _everything_ else. It terrifies him but the idea of Jim stopping makes him want to fucking cry. He just can’t vocalise it (or anything else apparently). But he has to say _something_ at _some point_ because if he doesn’t he’s going to explode, either in tears or in come, and neither prospect is appealing.

He takes a deep breath and steels himself. _Just say it, Fehn._ _It’s now or never._

“I want you.”

Jim moans, loud, shaky, clearly happy with Chris’s response. "Wanna touch you," he says. 

" _Fuck,_ please…" Chris breathes.

He mourns the loss of Jim’s hand on his dick, but only briefly, because Jim’s stroking all over his torso instead. Usually Chris would be too self-conscious to let someone have such free access to his body, but the way Jim touches him, with soft fingers and soft moans, makes him feel...not ugly? Nothing as far as gorgeous but not exactly hideous either. Jim leans up, rolling Chris gently onto his back and nudging his legs apart to kneel between them. He tips over easily, just desperate for more of those touches. Jim’s fingers are calloused but so gentle as they roam _everywhere,_ both hands now. Through the soft hair on his chest to twist a nipple (Chris yelps, Jim laughs). Chris’s body just responds on it's own, like his leg bending and lifting so Jim can smooth over the curve of his ass with as much skin available to him as possible. Chris has never in his life wanted someone to touch his ass so badly. 

Eventually Jim sits back on his heels and scoots up as close as he can, resting his cheek on Chris’s raised knee as he takes hold of his dick again and starts stroking him slowly. _Very_ slowly. Chris’s hips try to fuck up into Jim’s grip but he can’t match the pace. _Some fucking rhythm section._ The way he’s looking at Chris is...strange. Soft and dazed but intense, and to Chris’s horror he can feel himself starting to blush. 

"Tell me what you like," Jim says softly after a few moments of silence. 

"W-what?" Chris pants, wrongfooted, hips still thrusting up into Jim's hand in a fruitless attempt to make him go faster.

"I said, tell me what you like."

Chris feels the flush spread up his neck, warming his cheeks. "I, uh, I dunno - _fuck!"_ He hisses as Jim rubs his thumb across the head of his dick, apparently remembering the reaction it got last time. Jim grins, clearly revelling in making Chris as flustered as possible. "I can't Jim, _shit._ It’s - I’m not...” the way his voice wobbles as he trails off is embarrassing enough, but the fact he’s too inarticulate to answer Jim’s question makes Chris feel even worse. He huffs through his nose, frustrated, and tries to collect his thoughts. Fails miserably, because Jim’s still slowly stroking his dick with those long fingers that Chris is having horrific thoughts about. This isn't fair. it’s illegal, it’s against the Geneva Convention. Jim is Satan incarnate and Chris is about a scrote-hair away from passing out.

For a few seconds, he just breathes and lets himself concentrate on Jim, his hands and what he’s doing with them. Focuses on the slow movements and tries to sync his breathing with Jim’s strokes. Thankfully Jim seems to understand Chris’s predicament and doesn’t press him to answer or fuck about with the handjob, just keeps the same pace and rubs little circles on Chris’s calf with his thumb as he whispers _"Shhhhhh",_ and _"There, there,"_ against his knee. The way his beard tickles Chris’s skin makes him shiver.

It’s a miracle but it actually works. After taking a last steadying breath he licks his lips and tries again. "I like sloppy head," Jim groans softly, smiles, nods Chris on. "And um, if you choke on it? That usually feels good.”

“And?”

“You - you can play with my balls too, I like that. B-but be gentle. I’m kinda sen- _uh!_ Sensit-tive.”

“And?” 

_Oh god, fuck_ off _Jim. What else, what else..._

“If you use your hand as well as your mouth…?” Chris hears the question in his voice, like he’s asking Jim _is that enough? Will you stop torturing me now?_ He feels like you could fry an egg on his cheeks. Dragging his hands down his face he groans. _This isn't faaaaaaaair._

Jim fixes Chris with _a look,_ one eyebrow raised, and Chris knows he’s caught. That Jim knows fine well that’s not everything.

Dramatically Chris lets his arms drop onto the duvet. “Ok ok I like a finger in my ass too! There, are you happy?” he snaps. “Will you stop looking at me like that?” As he says that, he remembers something else. “Except don’t - don’t stop looking at me like that, I uh, kinda like eye contact…”

Jim finally seems satisfied with that, as he leans over Chris again, and Chris is so thankful to be kissed again because it means Jim's not dragging bits of his soul out anymore. For now anyway. His cheeks are burning less at least. He hums as Jim traces the length of his neck with his tongue, breathes out a soft sound as the kisses continue down the planes of his body. That wide wet tongue licks his nipples awake, something Chris isn't usually fussed about, but like everything else, it's different when Jim does it. Everywhere Jim kisses or touches - his neck, his chest, the bones of his hips - burns him with palpable need. He buries both hands into Jim's hair, twines the soft fluffy, still ever so slightly damp locks between his fingers.

Jim's hair is soft. So soft, like the rest of him. His lips, his hands, his whole manner. Soft and gentle and Chris fucking loves it. Way more than he expected to. In a way he's sad, because they could've been doing this for so much longer. So much time wasted _not_ having Jim Root soft and warm in his bed. Which, he thinks, is pretty ridiculous, really. Chris knows this is just a fuck. He had some kind of sudden middle-age crisis, wanted to experiment, and Jim is a willing and able stunt cock. That's it.

So why is he squirming and breathless and desperate for more while simultaneously already mourning the moment they have to stop? 

Jim interrupts Chris’s inner monologue by dipping his tongue into the crease where his thigh meets torso, a particularly sensitive place that makes Chris jump and gasp.

He lifts his head, looks down, into Jim's eyes and small, sly smile. 

"Tell me what you want me to do." 

_Oh fuck._ Chris takes a deep breath and licks his lips. _I can do this, I got this._

"S-suck."

And Jim does _exactly_ as he's told. 

Wrapping his lips around the head of Chris’s dick he sucks tentatively, one hand curled around it and the other still tracing those soothing shapes on his hip, arm wrapped around the back of Chris’s leg. Each time he dips his head he takes an inch, then another, then another, until soon his nose is buried in Chris’s pubes as he sucks him like his life depends on it. He slides down Jim's throat almost effortlessly. _Almost._ Jim gags and pauses for a second to collect himself, more than once, then carries on. Determined. Does that a few times, _probably on purpose,_ Chris thinks. Serves him right for literally telling Jim he wants him to choke on his dick, for fuck’s sake.

After a few false starts, he's deepthroating Chris like a practiced porn star. Then he’s giving Chris the full show: hollowing his cheeks out as his head bobs up and down, humming and groaning and gagging around the dick in his mouth so the vibrations shoot through Chris like electricity. Chris has to try _really really_ _hard_ not to think of how Jim learned how to suck cock so well. Jim's mouth is fucking glorious, and when he looks up at Chris through his lashes, all teary-eyed and pillow-lipped, he nearly comes right there and then. Chris takes it back, he doesn’t want eye contact, he can’t take it. Leaving one hand fisted in Jim's hair, he throws his other arm across his face so he can whine into the skin of his elbow. He’s literally never had such incredible head in his life, and he can’t stop fucking up into Jim’s mouth to hear him make those little sniffly choking noises again and again.

He also can't help it when he keeps Jim's head pushed down, fist tight in his hair, when Jim tries to come back up. When he heaves, his throat tightens around Chris like a vice, drool pouring out the sides of his mouth. Chris still thrusts, harder now, humping into that throat over and over until Jim's noises become shrill and he's slapping Chris's thigh. 

He lets go of Jim's hair immediately. Jim sits bolt upright and gasps, chest heaving. His nose is running, his face and beard already wet with tears and spit, and Chris is pretty sure he’s never seen someone look so absolutely _fucked_ and gorgeous; he’s still jerking Chris off, roughly wiping his face on the back of his hand and arm before mouthing at the head of his dick even as he tries to catch his breath, greedy and cock-hungry and willing to wreck himself just to make Chris feel good. And he _does_ feel good. Better than he has in ages. He's actually having fun, rather than just chasing an orgasm for once; the way Jim's throat spasms around his dick when he dives back down. The way spit strings from those puffy pink lips to his skin when he pulls Jim's head up for air again. How could he _not_ fucking enjoy this?

Jim winks at him. Chris gulps hard, shoving Jim’s head down again.

It’s not like Chris had any idea what Jim would be like in bed, but he still definitely didn’t expect _this._ This is fucking life-changing. This is right up there with the first time he found a beaten up copy of _Playboy_ by the side of the railroad tracks. After two weeks the pages were so stuck together and hardened you could bludgeon someone with it. Jim pulls back again to rub the flat of his tongue against the underside of Chris's crown. It practically wraps around half of the head of his dick.

Chris gasps so hard it hurts his chest. "Has anyone ever told you your tongue is fucking huge? Cos it fuckin' is, man."

Jim grins and sticks said tongue out at Chris. It really is massive. "Yeah, maybe once or twice, y’know? Made Corey puke one time."

Oh. Oh no. That makes something like jealousy flare deep in Chris’s stomach, followed by a slamdunk of embarrassment for being so stupid. He shoves Jim down again, so hard that he splutters a surprised sound around Chris's cock. Pulls him up again, and down again. Jim’s catches on and lets Chris use his mouth. He's chasing...something. Something to drive the thought of Jim and Corey together out of his mind.

Unfortunately if he comes down Jim's throat now, he'll still have that information at the front of his brain, and that's not gonna feel good. It takes all his self-control, but he pulls Jim off his dick again (trying to ignore the annoyed groan Jim makes), pulling him up and leaning down and swallowing the sound in a wet kiss. “I don’t wanna come yet," he explains.

Jim’s pauses for a second as his eyes widen a little, mouth turning into a perfect O like he's just realised something huge. Then he looks concerned. 

“Oh, can you not…y'know?” Jim just waves his hands, but Chris gets the gist, unfortunately.

“Actually, I _can,_ ” he responds, slightly offended. “I’m younger than you. Dick. Can _you_?”

Laughing, Jim leans in for another kiss, and Chris can only resist for a second before he kisses him back. 

“Wanna find out?" he whispers against Chris’s lips, and need pools like honey low in Chris’s gut. So does fear. For a split second he’s not sure which is going to win. Then a warm hand wraps around his dick again and his mind is firmly made up.

“Fuck yeah.”

Jim grins. “Thank god for that cos I’ve been needing your fucking fingers inside me since you first asked to suck my dick.” Chris chokes on his own spit, which Jim seems to find a lot funnier than Chris. “Have you ever fingered a guy before?”

“I’d never even _kissed_ a guy before tonight, what do you think?”

Jim laughs again, but Chris can tell it’s not at him. “It’s not that different to fingering a girl, y’know, don’t worry. Just go slow and use lots of lube. Pro-tip for if you ever fuck a dude; if you think you’ve used enough lube, add more. Oh, the lubes in the bag in the bathroom by the way."

Chris feels faint at the very thought of fucking _anyone_ right now, but the idea that it might be Jim? It doesn’t matter how clearly they seem to be careering in that direction, his brain just wont let him even _consider_ the concept. If that's what Jim was getting at. Whatever. Back to the matter at hand. He stands up on shaking legs and goes through to the bathroom, spotting the toiletry bag on the counter. It's _Star Wars_ themed. Why that strikes Chris as adorable, he has no idea. It does though. 

He can't stop himself from peeking through the contents of the bag while he snags the lube bottle. It feels so...intimate. a part of Jim that's so personal and unknown. Of course it's just the usual stuff, nothing really exciting apart from a little bottle of beard oil. That explains how fucking achingly soft Jim's facial hair is, the complete opposite of Chris and his scratchy stubble.

When he goes back through, Jim's still lying on his back on the bed, and again Chris is struck by just how _endless_ Jim’s body seems. His legs are lean and shapely, his arms, currently stretched above his head, are slender but muscular. Chris feels like he could start mapping Jim’s body with kisses and never be finished.

It’s the look on his face that’s really doing Chris in though. It’s flushed, a pink tint high on his cheeks above his beard, hair flopping into a perfect _Superman-_ esque curl on his forehead. His eyes track Chris as he makes his way back over to the bed, looking him up and down, up and down. Their eyes meet eventually, and Chris gulps like there’s a rock stuck in his throat. He feels exposed, wouldn’t be at all surprised if Jim decided he isn’t impressed by what he sees and tells Chris to hit the bricks. Chris is willing to bet that he wouldn’t feel half as self-conscious if he looked like Corey.

Then Jim beckons him towards the bed and gives him a smile that’s so sweet Chris nearly pledges undying love right there and then.

Gulping hard, Chris knees up onto the bed, grabs Jim's hips and roughly forces him onto his stomach, trying to ignore the squeak of surprise that turns into a moan when Chris pulls him up til he's kneeling and grabs a palmful of his ass. Shit. He'd thought having Jim on his knees, face buried in the pillows where he can't stare into Chris’s fucking soul and confuse him further, would help. Give him a second to breathe and collect himself. Instead he's suddenly very aware that he's never going to be able to call Jim _"Peach"_ again with a straight face. His ass is objectively fucking perfect, and Chris just wants to sink his teeth into it. Rimming isn't something that's ever really been on his radar. Now his radar is pinging like fifty torpedos are seconds from sinking him.

Instead, he decides that it might be a bit more than he can take right now and opts to just give Jim what he asked for. He drizzles the lube onto his fingers, rubbing it in to warm it a little, and palms Jim's ass with his left hand, opening him a little. The sigh Jim lets out when Chris pushes in one finger sounds so _relieved_ , so happy. It makes Chris's stomach bubble. He thrusts in and out a few times before working a second finger in, taking time for Jim’s sake but also so he can get his head around how different this feels from what he’s used to. Now he feels like he can actually _feel_ Jim's insides properly. They're so goddamned _tight._ Chris has no idea how the fuck he's meant to get his dick in there, but figures he'll worry about that when they get there.

 _Oh no_. There he is again, flirting with the concept of actually having sex with Jim, as if that's a perfectly reasonable thought. _Fuck._ _Just...just concentrate,_ he tells himself. Jim's walls are like hot velvet, soft and so accommodating, stretching to let him push in a third finger with barely any effort. Jim's shaking a bit, making these little moany panting sounds. Chris runs his other hand down his back, rubbing the tense muscles. Tells Jim in a broken voice about how good he's being, just relax baby, he's got him. Putting on a brave face, and he means it, but he’s mostly telling _himself_ to relax. He rubs that one spot behind Jim’s balls with his thumb, relishes the way it makes him jerk and shudder and groan. Soon Jim starts swaying backwards, rocking himself on Chris’s fingers. Chris just stares in awe. The sway of Jim’s hips is hypnotic. All the reservations and fear Chris had about the concept of having sex with Jim bleeds away until he’s leaning over Jim’s back, sweaty flesh to flesh, biting at his neck and practically begging him to let Chris fuck him. Jim nods fervently, mumbles something about being clean that Chris echoes, and Chris kisses every notch he can reach on Jim’s spine as he sits back up.

Unfortunately, as he grabs the lube and slicks his dick up, sighing with brief relief at getting a hand on himself, an image of Corey in the same position flashes unbidden through his brain. Something about the idea of tall gangly Jim bottoming for tiny wiry Corey is just so fucking erotic to him it makes him feel woefully inadequate. Corey’s so talented at literally everything he turns his hand to, how can Chris even hope to follow that performance? 

But he’s here now, and the quiet noises Jim’s making says that he wants this, so he kinda _has_ to go for it now. Chris kind of nudges his dick up against Jim’s hole, trying to push in and instead just sliding between his cheeks, uncertainty blooming in his gut. He understands the physics of what they’re doing, but a visceral desire to not hurt Jim just wont let him like _push_ _through_ like he needs to.

As if he can sense Chris's hesitation, Jim looks at Chris over his shoulder and speaks up. "Don’t worry about being rough with me again," he says, voice cracking a little, "You're not gonna break me."

Chris believes him. He's just not sure he's not going to break first. 

“M’sorry, it’s just… going from never even kissing a guy to having actual sex with one of my oldest friends? It’s just like, a lot.”

Jim doesn’t say anything. Just nods and smiles a little, rolling over and sitting up again so he can guide Chris's hands to his waist then lazily sling his arms around Chris’s neck. Nuzzle gently against his nose and catch his lips in a warm wet kiss. And that's all they do for a long moment, Chris taking the opportunity to let his hands roam around Jim's body; up his back, across his shoulders, down the curve of his sides. Jim sighs into the kiss, gently raking those long fingers across Chris’s scalp, and it feels so good. So fucking good.

Everything about Jim is so soft; gentle, warm and pliant and eager to take everything Chris offers. He loves the sound Jim makes as he moves to nibble at his jaw then neck, the way his body moves and responds to his every touch. Falling together with Jim is just so _easy._ So natural that Chris’s heart hurts again with regret that they didn't do this sooner. So much wasted time.

Chris isn't convinced he's ever been this turned on in his life. The misgivings have all but fluttered away, leaving behind an almost frantic need, and Chris is panting that he wants to, no, _needs_ to be inside Jim right fucking _now._

"D'you want me to roll over again?" Jim asks. Chris thinks for a second then shakes his head. He wants to see Jim's face, he decides. Wants to see what Jim looks like when he’s getting fucked. He missed out on seeing his expressions during the blow job and isn’t going to make that mistake twice. Their eyes meet just as Chris is guiding himself to Jim’s entrance. Chris has no doubt the fear is showing on his face, but the way Jim wraps those endless legs around his waist, strokes his face and gives him a little nod helps a little. Taking a last deep breath, Chris starts to push.

Jim doesn’t cry out or anything. Just scrunches his face up a bit with a tiny gasp in the back of his throat. Chris doesn’t push too hard, just slowly lets the weight of his hips do the hardest part of the work. Jim’s body stretches for him beautifully, and Chris gasps as he bottoms out, hips finally flush with Jim’s thighs. He can feel him shaking, breath catching and shuddering, but it all sounds and feels far away; down a dark tunnel that he can't see the end of because tears are already blurring his vision. He's stopped breathing, his chest constricted with need and arousal and he feels wobbly and overwhelmed.But there’s Jim’s hand on Chris’s cheek, slapping him lightly. He jerks and blinks, brought sharply back to reality.

“Hey hey, earth to Chris," he says, leaving his hand to stroke Chris's face. "You ok, man?"

"Y-yeah yeah, I'm good," he pants. "Just...fuckin'..."

Jim cuts him off, leaning up to kiss him once. "Yeah, I know. Me too. Just, y’know, breathe, and take your time." His voice is as wobbly as Chris's knees feel, obviously trying to be strong for Chris despite being ludicrously turned on himself. At least Chris assumes, given the fact Jim's dick, sandwiched between their bodies, is rock fucking solid. Girls are undoubtedly wetter, but Jim's insides are so fucking hot, tighter around his dick than anything else he's ever felt. He keeps his thrusts shallow at first, mostly because Jim keeps kissing him and Chris doesn’t want to pull away from those lips any more than he has to. Jim sighs into the kisses, hands around Chris’s biceps, using them as leverage to start rocking his hips. Soon they’ve established a rhythm and move together so much more easily than Chris could ever have expected. He’s never felt so connected to someone. Everything just seems to fall into sync so easily. Every so often they pull apart when they run out of breath and just huff against each others lips. Chris bites Jim’s bottom lip. Jim whines. Chris’s heart does somersaults. It all just feels so nice, so good, just so fucking...natural.

They're not making love, they're fucking. Chris tells himself again and again, but Jim's looking up at him with those wet green eyes and Chris is too scared and confused to tell what the expression in them means. All he knows is he's desperate, trying to override his body's reluctance to thrust into Jim harder, faster, rougher with less finesse, but his body isn't responding to his brain. It's only responding to Jim; his hands where they cling to Chris's sweaty shoulders, his thighs where they're tight around his hips. Trying to keep as much emotion out of things as possible weighs on Chris’s mind.

He can't do it anymore. Chris lets his head drop so he can nuzzle into Jim's neck, peppering it with hot humid open-mouthed kisses as he slides his arm under Jim’s shoulders and pulls him as close as he can. Jim gasps but doesn’t hesitate a second before wrapping his arms around Chris's broad back and digging his fingers in. Chris can feel Jim's dick stuck between them, leaking precome that's smearing all over both their bellies, but he doesn’t care. His other hand strokes down Jim’s side, around his ass and down his thigh where he grabs on, tight. With this new firm grip on Jim and all his inhibitions thrown to the wayside, Chris can start to pound into Jim properly.

"Could Corey give you this?" he snarls into the shell of Jim's ear. _Oh fuck, no,_ Chris thinks. He only meant to _think_ that, not fucking say it. It just fell out of his mouth before his brain could stop it. He can’t concentrate too much on how embarrassing it is though, because he’s instantly practically deafened by Jim's guttural moan. Jim shakes his head a little, pants _"No, no,"_ and Chris knows it's probably not true but right this very second it's all he needs to hear. "Yeah? He never fuck you this good?" Chris prays he hasn't. Hopes no one’s ever fucked Jim this nicely. Just asking the questions makes him feel vaguely sick. It’s none of his business. They’re not _“together”_ . Like Jim would tell him any different at this moment in time. But Chris feels the fear and anger drive him to thrust harder, faster, slamming into Jim as they both pant _“Yeah, yeah, yeah”_ over and over again. Something wet tickles Chris’s cheek and he realises it’s a tear. It makes him sit up so he can see Jim’s face again. See his eyes squeezed closed, wet eyelashes brushing his skin. He’s whimpering, these little gasps that sound like he’s trying to hold back. Chris doesn’t want him to hold back. He wants, no, _needs_ Jim to let go for him. This might be his only chance to hear Jim raw and unfettered.

“I wanna hear you, baby,” he purrs. Jim sobs. “Louder,” Chris urges. Jim’s voice cracks as he lets out a slightly louder cry, still too quiet to burst the quiet bubble around them. “C’mon, Peach. Let me hear you.” He gives a particularly pointed thrust, evidently nailing Jim’s prostate, because the sound Jim makes could only be described as a wail and Chris gasps in surprise as he starts to come. It’s exquisite, and all he can do is huff and pant as he pulses inside Jim’s body. Jim moans a little, clenching down on Chris’s dick as he rides it out. It’s fucking...beyond anything Chris can describe right at this minute. He feels like his head’s gonna pop. 

But Jim hasn’t come, and even through the fog of his orgasm that’s all Chris can think about. No sooner has his dick stopped twitching than he starts thrusting again, determined. He grunts as he drools more dirty talk into Jim’s ear, low and with a hint of threat, telling him that if this isn’t the best fuck he’s ever had, then Chris is just going to have to keep fucking him until he gets there. It doesn’t matter how long it takes or whoever else gets Jim, Chris is going to make sure he never forgets that Chris was here, that _he_ fucked him best. 

Apparently that is exactly what Jim needs to hear, because he makes a noise that sounds like all the air has been punched from his lungs that turns into a loud keening moan, and Chris feels Jim’s dick twitch hard between their bodies as he comes. Nails dig into his back, scraping down so hard Chris wouldn’t be surprised if they broke the skin, and Jim’s cry tails off into quiet gasped sobs. Chris eases his grip on Jim’s thigh, bringing the hand up to cup Jim’s face, kissing what little air he has in his lungs away. Their sweaty foreheads press together. Chris smiles. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jim’s mouth twitch up to match.

He has no idea what the fuck they just did, or what it means, but for now, Chris is pretty thankful for the existence of grey sweatpants.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dysphorie.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> dysphorie-dot-png.tumblr.com


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